Absurd Azura

I crave a ladle of clear, cool ethereal absinthe –
In the absence of relief I must seek another comfort,
Turn to colder worship; become the very colour of the
Night I wish to chase, and make away with. Verily,
I am a mortal man; whatever sun has gone down on me
Is the orb from which I rise, the body I’ve disguised in
Astral shape, celestial only to the eyes of he who kneels,
She who wakes me from the stupor of my ways. Life, and
The poet’s blood – an actor’s false sensation of being real
In surreal world. From fire, and a hunger for all things
That burn, the dust in me will settle, the Verb of creation
Will stir. I am neither here nor present – I am the Gate
Through which the flow of Time shall pass, the past shall
Breed the future, I myself will turn to ash. Transformation
In the latest form available, the last of my lost kind –
A love for which all Men may live, but only one must die.


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